magined.

Mary Galbraith, the doctor's housekeeper, thought a golden shower had
fallen over the house. Where there had been absolute poverty there was
now abundance. There were no more shabby curtains and threadbare
carpets--everything was new and comfortable. The doctor seemed to have
grown younger--relieved as he was from a killing weight of anxiety and
care.

The day came when Lord Charlewood was to say good-by to his little
daughter, and the friends who had been friends indeed. Margaret Dornham
was sent for. When she arrived the two gentlemen were in the parlor, and
she was shown in to them. Every detail of that interview was impressed
on Margaret's mind. The table was strewn with papers, and Lord
Charlewood taking some in his hand, said:

"You should have a safe place for those doctor. Strange events happen in
life. They might possibly be required some day as evidences of
identification."

"Not much fear of that," returned the doctor, with a smile. "Still, as
you say, it is best to be cautious."

"Here is the first--you may as well keep it with the rest," said Lord
Charlewood; "it is a copy of my marriage certificate. Then you have here
the certificates of my little daughter's birth and of my poor wife's
death. Now we will add to these a signed agreement between you and
myself for the sum I have spoken about."

Rapidly enough Lord Charlewood filled up another paper, which was signed
by the doctor and himself; then Stephen Letsom gathered them all
together. Margaret Dornham saw him take from the sideboard a plain oaken
box bound in brass, and lock the papers in it.

"There will be no difficulty about the little lady's identification
while this lasts," he said, "and the papers remain undestroyed."

She could not account for the impulse that led her to watch him so
closely, while she wondered what the papers could be worth.

Then both gentlemen turned their attention from the box to the child.
Lord Charlewood would be leaving directly, and it would be the last time
that he, at least, could see the little one. There was all a woman's
love in his heart and in his face, as he bent down to kiss it and say
farewell.

"In three years' time, when I come back again," he said, "she will be
three years old--she will walk and talk. You must teach her to say my
name, Mrs. Dornham, and teach her to love me."

Then he bade farewell to the doctor who had been so kind a friend to
him, leaving something in his hand which